


Edge

by Elisexyz



Series: We could build a house [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-18 10:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19332304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: “I can sense that you are about to apologize again,” Thomas says, his tone way too light given  the situation, his voice slightly muffled by the cloth covering half his face. “I assure you, I’ve heard you the first thirty times.”





	Edge

**Author's Note:**

> *tip-toes into new fandom* Hi! *waves*  
>  I just _really_ wanted to write something about these two post-finale, I hope you will enjoy it <3

“I’m sorry.”

Thomas rolls his eyes at him, accepting the wet cloth and pressing it against his bleeding nose. James considers reaching out, helping him wash away the stains spattered all around his face, but touching him is probably the last thing he should do right now, and he resolves to get up from their bed once again, looking for a clean shirt to substitute the blood-stained one.

As he walks back and faces Thomas, his eyes linger on him, and he can’t help grimacing: he looks like he came straight from a fucking murder scene – and _he_ should know.

Captain Flint was supposed to sink back into the sea in the precise moment he was no longer useful, but it seems that even now, weeks away from their escape from the plantation, when he’s finally free to be only James once again, he can’t shake the bastard’s scent off him. He brought him into their _home_.

(Thomas was never supposed to meet him, let alone like this.)

“I can sense that you are about to apologize again,” Thomas says, his tone way too light given the situation, his voice slightly muffled by the cloth covering half his face. “I assure you, I’ve heard you the first thirty times.”

James somehow musters up some ghost of a smile, and this is one of those dreadful times when he has to consciously try to become James McGraw again, when rage boils in the pit of his stomach and he wants to _hit_ something.

( _You have already landed enough_ hits _for tonight, haven’t you, Captain?)_

“James.”

He raises his eyes, muttering noncommittally to show that he’s present in the moment.

Thomas gives him a knowing look that says he’s seeing all the way through it. “It was only an accident, nothing happened.”

“Except you are bleeding out on our bed,” he points out, maybe a bit more sharply than intended.

“That is surely an exaggeration.” He pulls the cloth away, checking how big the stain is. James looks away, feeling vaguely nauseous. “See? It looks like it’s beginning to slow down,” Thomas announces, his tone conversational, like he really is unbothered by this.

James knows that he is, that of course Thomas doesn’t think he would intentionally hurt him, that for him this is nothing more than a silly accident. He really wishes he could be just as calm about it, that he didn’t know that this might very well be the beginning of the end, dragging him down a road that he has been stubbornly ignoring since he locked away the last ten years of his life in a box.

Captain Flint is supposed to stay relegated in the past, a ghost whose name people probably still whisper at sea, and James is to live a completely different life, alone in an house with no neighbours closer than a fifteen minutes ride away and Thomas staring back at the man he once knew. There is no space for the monster he became, not even for a moment.

The truth is James has been swallowed whole by him once, no matter how much he told himself that he could take off the mask as soon as it’d served its purpose – he still thinks about it, sometimes, about that quiet life that he was supposed to have with Miranda, at peace, away from the sea –, and now he can’t allow that to happen again. Any fragment of Captain Flint could very well poison his whole life, and James doesn’t want to ruin this. He isn’t sure he could stand it.

He realizes he has been silent for too long, sitting at the edge of the bed, his muscles ready to flee the room, only when Thomas reaches out for his arm and pulls him down, rather insistently too. James lets him do it.

“You have hardly spoken a word since you woke up,” Thomas points out, rubbing his shoulder gently before checking once again the cloth, electing that he can finally get rid of it. James misses the cover for the traces of blood still on his face. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what it is that you were dreaming about this time?”

He rarely does. He has his frequent share of agitated dreams – so does Thomas, for that matter –, but most of them are hardly worth recalling: mixtures of images and voices, killings piling up on other killings so fast that he could barely make out the faces, screams, fear, adrenaline, rage, rage, rage—

James is fairly sure it was one of those. It evaporated on the spot as soon as he realized that it was Thomas’ voice calling his name, and that he just punched him straight in the face for attempting to wake him up.

“I don’t really remember,” he says, offering a brief shrug. He pauses, drawing in a sharp breath as his fingers play with the collar of Thomas’ shirt. “I’m—” He raises his eyes in time to catch the mute warning on his lover’s face: _If you apologize again, you are sleeping in the other room_. “Just one more,” he asks, receiving a benevolent eye-roll as an answer. “I’m sorry,” he says then, and he knows that for all that he can vow it won’t happen again, it might. He wishes he had a way to kill Captain Flint.

“ _Again_ , it’s alright, it was only an accident.”

Thomas stares at him for a few moments, pursing his lips in that thoughtful way that means _trouble_. Because when Thomas Hamilton gets fixated on an argument, you’ll have virtually no chance of making him desist. James automatically braces himself.

“What is it exactly that has you so troubled?” Thomas eventually asks, narrowing his eyes. “I doubt that it is the blood, am I or am I not speaking to the most fearsome pirate captain of the high seas?”

 _For fuck’s sake, Thomas_.

James thinks that he has been mildly successful at masking his wince at the casual declaration, but ‘mildly’ won’t be enough, not when Thomas is staring at him so intently, looking for an indication of what it is that’s going on in his head.

In fact, Thomas doesn’t even seem to be interested in what answer he might give to that: his expression softens somewhat, and he reaches for his hand.

“I know what you did while we were apart, James,” he reminds him. “I told you, I am okay with that. Whoever you became brought you back to me, how could I be mad? I have no intention of running away just because you are now much quicker to react with a punch.”

James presses his lips together in a thin line, unsure of what to say.

Thomas knows who he was, that is true, but he doesn’t _know_. He has no details, if not a few facts that James has shared with him: how he came to kill Alfred Hamilton – neither of them has the will to be particularly sorry about that –, that Miranda died in Peter Ashe’s home, that he has done a lot of things that nobody should ever be proud of.

Thomas didn’t push, and James didn’t offer any more than what he was directly asked. So, yes, although he knows that he is – _was_ – Captain Flint, he doesn’t really _know_. Knowing intellectually that someone he loves has so much blood on his hands is one thing, another entirely is that notion becoming a concrete reality, through vivid and detailed stories, or through a punch in the face.

If Captain Flint was a ghost to this house up until yesterday, he is now much more dangerous.

“I know,” he finally resolves to say. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you. I only—” He sighs. “I don’t want things that belong in the past to come to light. That is all.”

Thomas frowns at that, and James can tell that he disagrees with and perhaps is rather worried by the statement, but he seems to elect that this isn’t the best moment to press the issue – thank fuck for that, James would only want to go back sleep, except who knows what disastrous consequences that could have this time.

“We are okay,” Thomas eventually says. “The past is the past and it cannot touch us no matter how many times you attempt to break my nose.” It is said in a joking tone, so James musters up a small smile at that, even if the thought still makes him nauseous. “So,” Thomas adds then, taking a sharp breath. “I think I will change my clothes and get cleaned up. I would not mind salvaging however many hours of sleep we have left.”

Minutes later, lying in the dark with Thomas pressed against him, his eyes closed and his side exposed with no fear, James can’t bring himself to relax enough to drift into sleep.

After all, ghosts have a better chance at taking over the living when they are too vulnerable to defend themselves, right? For tonight, what James needs is watching over Thomas until he can convince himself that he is the one in control, and his demons are caged where they belong.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


End file.
